Divine Evil

by Nora Roberts

  He was a patient man and an enthusiastic one. In all things. When he had met his wife, she had been the assistant of a rival art dealer with ambition glittering in her eyes. Cool and remote to the most casual of flirtations or the most overt of suggestions, she'd been an irresistible challenge to his ego. It had taken him six weeks to convince her to have dinner with him, another three frustrating months to ease her into his bed.

  There she had not been cool; she had not been remote.

  The sex had been the easiest hurdle. He had known she was attracted to him. Women were. He was artist enough to recognize that he was physically appealing, and man enough to play on it. He was tall with a body he cared for religiously with diet and training. The French accent-and his often deliberately awkward phrasing-only added to the attraction. His dark, curling hair was worn nearly shoulder length to frame his bony, intelligent face with its deep blue eyes and sculptured mouth. He wore a thin mustache to accent it and to keep it from appearing too feminine.

  In addition to his looks, he had a deep and sincere affection for the female-all of them. He had come from a family of many women and had since childhood appreciated them for their softness, their strengths, their vanities, and their shrewdness. He was as sincerely interested in the elderly matron with blue-tinted hair as he was in the statuesque bombshell-though often for different reasons. It was this openness with women that had led to his success in bed and in business.

  But Angie had been his one and only love, though not his only lover. Convincing her of that, and of the advantages of a traditional marriage, had taken him the better part of two years. He didn't regret a minute of it.

  His hand closed lightly over hers as he cruised down the two-lane road again. “Je t'aime,” he said, as he often did.

  It made her smile and bring his hand to her lips. “I know.” He was a precious man, she thought. Even if he could make her crazy. “Just warn me if you decide to pull over for any more goats or other animal life.”

  “Do you see the field there?”

  Angie glanced out the window and sighed. “How could I miss it? That's all there is.”

  “I would make love with you there, in the sunlight. Slowly. With my mouth first, tasting you everywhere. And when you began to shudder, to cry out for me, I would use my hands. Just the fingertips. Over your lovely breasts, then down, inside you where it would be so hot, so wet.”

  Four years, she thought. Four years and he could still make her tremble. She slanted him a look and saw that he was smiling. She shifted her gaze downward and saw that he was quite sincere in his fantasy. The field no longer seemed so intimidating.

  “Maybe Clare can direct us to a field that's not so close to the road.”

  He chuckled, settled back, and began to sing along with Beausoleil.

  Because she was too nervous to work, Clare was planting petunias along the walkway. If Angie and Jean-Paul had left New York at ten, as discussed, they would be driving up any minute. She was delighted at the thought of seeing them, of taking them around the area. And she was terrified at the idea of showing them her work and discovering that she'd been wrong.

  None of it was any good. She'd been deluding herself because she needed so badly to believe she could still make something important out of a hunk of wood or scraps of metal. It had come too easily at first, she thought. Both the work and the acceptance of it. The only place to go was down.

  Do you fear failure, Clare, or success? Dr. Janowski's voice buzzed in her head.

  Both-doesn't everyone? Go away, will you? Everyone's entitled to a little private neurosis.

  She pushed all thoughts of her work aside and concentrated on turning the soil.

  Her father had taught her how. How to baby the roots, mix in peat moss, fertilizer, water, and love. By his side she had learned how soothing, how fulfilling the planting of a living thing could be. In New York she'd forgotten the pleasure of that and the comfort of it.

  Her mind wandered. She thought of Cam, how intense their lovemaking was. Each time. Every time. It was like feeding on the most basic of levels. They went at each other like animals, hungry and feral. She'd never been so, well, lusty with anyone else.

  And, God, she thought with a grin, what she'd been missing!

  How long could it last? She shrugged and went on with her planting. She knew that the darkest and most intense of passions were supposed to fade the fastest. But she couldn't let it worry her. Wouldn't. However long it lasted would just have to be enough. Because right now it was hard for her to get through an hour without imagining getting her hands on him again.

  Lovingly, she patted and firmed the dirt around the red and white petunias. The sun beat strong against her back as she covered the soil with mulch. They would grow, she thought, and spread and bloom until the first frost shriveled them. They wouldn't last forever, but while they did, it would give her pleasure to look at them.

  She glanced up at the sound of an engine, then sat back on her heels as Bob Meese pulled his truck into her drive. “Hey, Clare.”

  “Bob.” She stuck the spade into the dirt and rose.

  “Nice flowers you got there.”

  “Thanks.” She spread dirt from her palms to the hips of her jeans.

  “Told you I'd bring the lamp on by if I got a minute.”

  Her brow wrinkled, then cleared as she remembered. “Oh, right. Your timing's perfect. My friends should be here anytime. Now they can actually have a lamp in their room.”

  And what a lamp, she thought, as he pulled it out of the back. It was about five feet high with a bell-shaped red shade, beaded and fringed, on a curving, gilded pole. It looked like something out of a nineteenth-century bordello. Clare sincerely hoped it was.

  “It's even better than I remembered,” she said, and tried to recall if she had paid him for it or not. “Could you take it on into the garage? I'll get it upstairs later.”

  “No problemo.” He hefted it inside, then stood studying her tools and sculptures. “I guess people pay a bunch for stuff like this.”

  She smiled, deciding he was more baffled than critical. “Sometimes.”

  “The wife likes art,” he said conversationally as he squinted at a brass and copper sculpture. Modern shit, he thought, sneering inwardly, but as an antique dealer, he knew there was no telling what people would plunk down hard cash for. “She's got this plaster donkey and cart out in the front yard. You do any stuff like that?”

  Clare bit down on the tip of her tongue. “No,” she said solemnly. “Not really.”

  “You can come on by and take a look at ours if you want some ideas.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  When he started back toward his truck without giving her a bill, Clare figured she must have paid in advance. He opened the door, then propped a foot on the running board. “I guess you heard Jane Stokey sold the farm.”

  “What?”

  “Jane Stokey,” he repeated, hitching a thumb in a belt loop. His mood lifted considerably when he saw he was the first to pass on the news. “Sold the farm-or she's gonna. Word is she might move on down to Tennessee. Got a sister down there.”

  “Does Cam know?”

  “Can't say. If he don't, he'll know by suppertime.” He wondered if there was any way he could mosey into the sheriff's office and drop the bombshell, real casual like.

  “Who bought it?”

  “Some hotshot realtor down to D.C.'s what I heard. Must've checked the obits and seen Biff's. Made her a good offer from what I heard. Hope to shit some developer don't plant more houses.”

  “Can they do that?”

  He pursed his lips, lowered his brows. “Well, now, it's zoned agricultural, but you never know. Money greases the right palms, and that could change quick enough.” He stopped, coughed, and looked away, remembering her father. “So, you, ah, settling in?”

  She noted that his gaze had veered upward, toward the attic window. “More or less.”

  He looked back at her. “Not to
o spooky here for you, all alone?”

  “It's hard to be spooked in a house you grew up in.” And where all the ghosts were so familiar.

  He rubbed at a spot on his side mirror. There'd been a light on in her attic once or twice. Certain people wanted to know why. “I guess with all the stuff you're buying, you're planning on being around awhile.”

  She'd nearly forgotten how important it was in small towns for everyone to know everything. “I don't really have any plans.” She shrugged. “The beauty of being unfettered.”

  “I guess.” He'd been fettered too long to understand. Casually, and cleverly, he thought, he wound his way around to his purpose for being there. “Funny having you back here. Makes me think about that first time I took you out. The carnival, right?”

  Her eyes went flat, her cheeks paled. “Yes. The carnival.”

  “That sure was-” He broke off, as if he'd just remembered. “Jesus, Clare.” Sincerity shone in his eyes as he blinked. “I'm awful sorry. Don't know how I could've forgotten.”

  “It's all right.” Her cheeks hurt as she fought with a smile. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, a long time. Man, I feel like a jerk.” Awkwardly, he reached for her hand. “It must be rough on you, having people remind you.”

  She didn't need anyone to remind her, but managed a restless movement with her shoulders. “Don't worry about it, Bob. I wouldn't be here if I couldn't handle it.”

  “Well, sure, but…well,” he said again, “I guess you got plenty to keep you busy. Your statues.” He gave her a sly wink. “And the sheriff.”

  “Word travels,” she said dryly.

  “That it does. I guess the two of you are hitting it off.”

  “I guess.” With some amusement, she noted that his eyes kept cutting back into her garage, toward the sculpture she'd titled The Inner Beast. “Maybe Bonnie Sue'd like that to put next to her donkey.”

  Bob flushed and shifted his foot. “I don't think it's her style. Can't say I know anything about art, but-”

  “You know what you like,” she finished for him. “It's all right if you don't like it, Bob. I'm not sure I do myself.”

  No, he didn't like it because it was all too familiar. “How come you made up something like that?”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “I'm not sure. You could say it just comes to me. In a dream,” she added softly, almost to herself, and rubbed a chill from her arms.

  His eyes narrowed, sharpened, but when she turned back, his face was bland. “I think I'll stick with donkey carts. You let me know if you have any trouble with that lamp.”

  “Yes. I will.” He'd been the first boy to kiss her, she remembered, and smiled at him. “Tell Bonny Sue I said hello.”

  “I will.” Satisfied with what he'd learned, he nodded and hitched at his belt. “I sure will.” He turned. His eyes narrowed, then widened. “Christ in a handcart, look at that car.”

  Clare glanced over and spotted the Jaguar pulling up to the curb. Even as Jean-Paul jumped out, she was running down the slope of the drive to spring into his arms for a hard, exaggerated kiss.

  “Mmmm.” He kissed her again. “Licorice.”

  Laughing, she turned to hug Angie. “I can't believe you're here.”

  “Neither can I.” Angie pushed her hair back as she took a long, slow scan of the street. Her idea of country wear included nile green linen pants and matching jacket with a rose-colored silk blouse. She had worn flats-Bruno Magli. “So, this is Emmitsboro.”

  “It is indeed.” Clare kissed her. “How was the drive down?”

  “We only got one ticket.”

  “Jean-Paul must be mellowing.” She watched him haul two suitcases and a leather tote from the car. “We'll go in and have some wine,” she told him, and took the tote. She started up the drive, pausing beside Bob's truck to make introductions. “Bob Meese, Angie and Jean-Paul LeBeau, friends and art dealers from New York. Bob owns the best antique store in town.”

  “Ah.” Jean-Paul set down a suitcase to offer a hand. “We must be sure to see your shop before we leave.”

  “Open ten to six, six days a week, twelve to five on Sunday.” Bob took note of Jean Paul's alligator shoes and gold link bracelet. Imagine, a guy wearing a bracelet-even if he was a foreigner. Bob also noted his exotic-looking wife. His black wife. These were the little details he would dispense over the counter until closing time. “Well, got to get back.”

  “Thanks for bringing the lamp by.”

  “No problemo.” With a quick salute, he climbed into his truck and backed out of the drive.

  “Did someone say wine?” Angie wanted to know.

  “Absolutely.” Clare hooked an arm through Angie's and started to steer her around to the walk leading to the front of the house. “In your honor, I went all the way into Frederick and stocked up on pouilly-fuisse$$.”

  “Wait.” Jean-Paul headed in the opposite direction. “You're working here, in the garage?”

  “Yes, but why don't we go in and get settled? How about these petunias? I just-”

  Angie was already following her husband, pulling Clare with her. Clare blew a little breath between her teeth, closed her mouth, and waited. She'd wanted to put this moment off-foolishly, she supposed. Both Jean-Paul's and Angie's opinions meant a great deal. They loved her, she knew. And because they did they would be honest, even brutal if necessary. The pieces she had done here at home were vitally important to her. More than anything else she'd done, these had been ripped cleanly from her heart.

  In silence she stood back, watching them study and circle. She could hear the gentle tap tap of Angie's foot on the concrete as she examined the wood carving from every angle. They didn't exchange a word, hardly a look. Jean-Paul pulled on his lower lip, a nervous habit Clare recognized, as he studied the metal sculpture Bob Meese had recently frowned over.

  Where Bob had seen a tangle of metal, Jean-Paul saw a pit of fire, the flames boiling and streaking. It was a hungry and dangerous fire, he thought. It made his skin prickle. It made him wonder what had been consumed by it.

  Saying nothing, he turned to the clay arm Clare had fired only the day before. Young, defiant, he mused. With the potential for brutality or heroics. He pulled on his lip again and continued on to the next piece.

  Clare shifted from foot to foot, stuck her hands in her pockets, then pulled them out again. Why did she put herself through this? she wondered. Each time, every time, it felt as though she had ripped out her feelings, her fantasies and fears and put them on public display. And it never got better, never got easier, she thought, rubbing her damp palms against the thighs of her jeans. If she had any brains, she'd be selling appliances.

  The LeBeaus huddled over the metal sculpture that had sprung from Clare's nightmare. They had yet to exchange a word. Whatever silent communication they shared was potent but was lost on Clare. She was holding her breath when Jean-Paul turned. His face was solemn when he put his hands on her shoulders. Bending, he kissed her cheeks in turn.

  “Amazing.”

  Clare's breath whistled out. “Thank God.”

  “I hate to be wrong.” Angie's voice was taut with excitement. “I really hate to have to admit I might be wrong. But coming here, working here was the best thing you could have done. Christ, Clare, you stagger me.”

  Clare put an arm around each of them, torn between the urge to weep and to howl with laughter. In her heart she'd known the sculptures were good. But her head had taken over with nasty, nagging doubts.

  “Let's have the wine,” she said.

  Bob Meese hurried back to his shop, entering through the rear to avoid customers. He locked both the outside and inside doors before picking up the phone. As he dialed he tried to work up some saliva. Facing in the light of day what he did at night always dried up the spit in his mouth.

  “I saw her,” he said the moment the phone was answered.

  “And?”

  “She's thinking about her old man all right. Y
ou can see it.” Bob took a moment to thank any deity that he'd been too young to be initiated when Jack Kimball had taken his last fall. “I don't think she knows what he was into-I mean, she acts too easy about it. I was right about that statue, though. I got a better look at it today.”

  “Tell me.”

  Bob wished he'd taken the time to get himself a nice, cold drink. “It looks like-I told you.” He pressed his lips together. Here in his office, with the pictures of his wife and kids standing on his cluttered desk and the smell of linseed oil stinging his nostrils, it was hard to believe he was one of them.

  Enjoyed being one of them.

  “The ceremonial mask, the robes. A beast on a man's body.” His voice lowered to a whisper, though there was no one to hear. “It could be any one of us-just like she'd seen. I don't think she